


Chance of Survival

by Llama



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-08 01:55:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llama/pseuds/Llama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last place Jack was ever supposed to be was in the middle of an apocalypse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chance of Survival

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arnica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arnica/gifts).



> Written for arnica at [Winter Companion](http://wintercompanion.livejournal.com/).

“Jack?”

The figure huddled over the ruins of the burnt-out building didn't move. It didn't flinch, or turn around, or say something desperately inappropriate. It scrabbled in the dirt and ashes, occasionally lifting a charred lump of something and adding it to pockets that were in danger of overflowing.

“Jack,” the Doctor repeated, and reached out his hand. The touch, just the faintest press of the heavy protective glove on his threadbare sleeve, was enough for the man to lift his head. There was no recognition in the eyes that stared into his visor, but that was far from the worst thing.  _The radiation_ , he realised, as the last of the man's skin melted from his face, the chest caved in, and the body dissolved, oozing between splintered boards and bubbling into the dust.

In the cellar below, the Doctor watched and waited as the drips and bubbles reformed. That was the proof he needed, but he kept watching. Muscle, tissue, bone, all of it reuniting, building the man he'd come here to find.

“Jack,” he said, when the body shuddered and drew in a long, deep breath.

 

As decisions went, it had been among the easiest he'd ever had to make.

The heavily populated, pretty much harmless Gorash A, with its tourist-filled resorts and its booming economy, or the rocky, inhospitable Baraphon, a minor planet in the Arkon system long abandoned by everyone except pirates, bandits, ruffians and general ne'er-do-wells when the rest of the galaxy was getting too hot for them. Overpriced snacks and the dubious treatment of six-legged beach slugs aside, there was no question which one was getting the priority save and which one was going to have to take its chances and hold out till the final second on the countdown.

It should have been the right decision. It  _had_  been the right decision. But looking from the tracker in his hand to the orange-red glow of the planet, to the readout festooned with flashing red skulls and radiation symbols – he really needed to upgrade that software to something more suitable before the next planetary crisis came around – the Doctor was having a hard time believing it.

It was almost a thousand years after that particular apocalypse before the display changed to gently pulsing orange skulls. The Doctor allowed himself a small whoop, but the detailed results made a depressing read, particularly the part that said Chance of Survival in This Atmosphere: None

A little over six hundred years after that, a jolt rocked the TARDIS for no discernible reason while beating a hasty retreat from New Orion, and the display flickered into phase yellow. The skulls were almost friendly with their grins in sunny yellow, but all the Doctor could see were bared teeth and the hollow, accusing eyes.

It was two thousand and forty years after the end of Baraphon before the Chance of Survival rating began to slowly improve from None to Virtually None to Poor and even Not Good. Each time it rose, the Doctor's hopes went with it.

 

It was no more than he deserved, the way Jack was ignoring him.

“-- and then the skulls turned into little green flowers, you see.” The Doctor's hands made a marvellous flowering type motion, if he did say so himself. He tried it again. Yes, he liked that. It was a pity it was completely wasted on Jack, who just kept on scraping his lump of charred wood against the nearest wall.

“It's silly, really. Flowers aren't green, are they?” He pondered for a moment. “Any colour but green. A bit like this planet.”

Post-apocalyptic was not a good look for Baraphon. It wasn't doing Jack any favours either, but at least his tendency to melt into goo was slowing down as his body regenerated with lower and lower doses of lethal radiation. Lethal to humans in any case – crude shacks and occasional petty destruction made it clear someone else had been here in the past two thousand years.

Whoever or whatever they'd been, they weren't here now.

“You weren't supposed to be here, you know,” he said sadly, watching Jack scrabble about in the dirt. “You  _weren't_  here, I know you weren't. That tracker cost a fortune, all to keep a better eye on you, and what do you do? You wait until there's a bloody apocalypse and then sneak onto the planet for a bit of sightseeing!”

It was a mystery how Jack had got there. It was impossible, like Jack's very existence. If it was possible, if it could be explained, then he could fix it. It would be fixable.  _Theoretically_  it would be fixable. He'd be able to see it, see how it went wrong, see how it could be changed. Set it back on the right course.

But not when it was Jack. Difficult, impossible, unpredictable Jack.

Sod it, his console had  _green flowers_  now instead of skulls. Even without an instruction manual, any idiot could tell you that meant it was safe. And Jack hadn't had a meltdown in days, even though he'd refused to wear so much as a single glove of the spare suit he'd brought him. He pushed up his visor and scratched his nose. There was nothing like wearing a full-face helmet to give you a tickly nose.

“What are you doing?” Jack did the same thing all day, every day. First he'd search out burnt wood and clumps of dirt until he couldn't carry any more, then he'd settle next to one of the ruined walls of the old buildings of the planet and daub marks on the wall, with no obvious pattern or meaning. Or at least, no obvious meaning when his body had been slowly disintegrating, and movement must have been difficult, control even worse.

Now, if he squinted... “What are you doing? What am I doing, asking such a stupid question!” He couldn't believe he hadn't seen it before; too busy moping about and feeling guilty to open his eyes and see. “You're writing, aren't you-- well, no, painting. You're making cave paintings Don't give up the day job by the way, you're not much of an artist, but--” He whirled around, thinking hard. “But before, when you first arrived, you were writing. Now you're just going through the motions, but then-- then you were  _writing_.”

And if Jack had been writing, doing that from the beginning, then his story was here. His story was all here, and if he knew it, if he could trace the way back through the timeline, then maybe Jack's presence would no longer be so impossible, and maybe,  _maybe_  there was just the tiniest sliver of a chance that this might never have happened.

 

He liked to think it was his enthusiasm that got Jack back on his feet. Maybe hope and excitement were infectious, or at least emotions that could get through to Jack even in his uncommunicative state. Either way, Jack required minimal manhandling to persuade him to trek backwards across what was left of Baraphon's ruined capital city and into whatever lay beyond.

“Interesting new take on hieroglyphics you have here,” the Doctor said conversationally, squinting at the defaced wall of a temple dedicated to the god of vandals and pirates. He tucked that away to make Jack laugh later, when he was more like himself.

Patches of fallen plaster and occasional scorch marks of no obvious origin obscured some of the transition from an almost recognisable Atrean shorthand to the squiggles he could only call hieroglyphics, but then he had a clear run and the shorthand evolved into a mish-mash of languages he had a smattering of, enough to pick up something about a Enovian smuggler and two hairy-- good grief, that wasn't anatomically possible, he was sure of that.

Reasonably sure.

Memories, of course. Not events, because how many times could you report your hands turning to jelly on the end of your wrists, or the unwholesome yellow tint of the sky from the near complete destruction of life on this planet?

They walked across the dried up river bed, and read about Jack's cousins scrawled on the side of a collapsing bridge. Past loves the Doctor had never heard him mention were inscribed on the city walls, round and around in a spiral of names and places. When Jack went in an instant from reluctant follower to pulling him away from one section in particular, he felt another flare of hope blaze up inside. Not because of what might be on the wall – he had a good idea of what that might be – but because Jack was thinking, not just stumbling along blindly. Or at least he was remembering. Maybe even reading, understanding.

On days when it seemed like they might not be able to go on, he thought about that moment.

They walked backwards through Jack's many lives, through many identities. It took them underneath the city walls, to the tunnels and sewers, and out again to what might have been suburbs once upon a time.

Not any more.

He couldn't even blame time, or the weather. He couldn't blame erosion or shoddy building work, or bad luck. There was only one thing to blame for the crater that had obliterated anything that might have been left of Jack's story. One person.

“I was too late,” he realised. Somebody had been here. He'd known that, of course. He'd seen the signs in the city, in the tunnels. Someone had taken a chance and made it here, while he'd been cautious and careful, monitoring from a safe distance with his stupid red skull and green flower alert system.

It was quite the coincidence, too. Somehow Jack had arrived here; impossible Jack making an impossible journey. And somehow the only information that might allow it to be changed had been destroyed.

“You know, I'm beginning to think someone really doesn't like you,” he said, clapping his hand on Jack's shoulder.

 

“Jack,” the Doctor said, watching the wall fill up with new scribbles. It was possible Jack had invented a whole new language entirely by accident. At least it seemed plausible; no random daubs of mud and charcoal any more. He hadn't even seen Jack eat dirt for weeks.

Jack's hand paused in the middle of a complex-looking symbol. It might have been a bat with horns, but then again it could have been a moose's head. It was a question of which way you looked at it.

Same with him staying on Baraphon for a while. You could see it as him abandoning his duty to the universe, if you looked at it in an uncharitable light. Or you could see it as him finally stepping up and being there for a... friend. A friend who had sometimes perhaps been a bit more than a friend. A friend who needed him, because right now, he was the only one who had any real hope of helping him get his life back, of wiping out all this mess. A friend he wasn't going to let down again.

Despite plenty of evidence to the contrary, the universe was all grown up these days. It could get along without him patching its scraped knees and wiping its nose for a little while.

“You.” The Doctor pointed at Jack. “Are Jack.”

“Ch-haack,” Jack repeated, his voice faint and hoarse. At least he was getting closer.

It wasn't going to be quick, he knew that. But even if he couldn't take the shortcut he'd hoped for, the answers he needed were still in Jack's head somewhere. Scrambled maybe, locked up in symbols only he understood, or perhaps just beyond his comprehension right now. If they found the way in-- no,  _when_  they found the way in, it would be Chance of Survival: Pretty Damn Good.

They'd get there in the end.

And when they did, whoever was responsible was going to wish that all they had to deal with was an apocalypse or two.


End file.
